


Sherlock vs Miss Marple

by RachaelW



Category: Miss Marple - Agatha Christie, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Miss Marple Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:04:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RachaelW/pseuds/RachaelW
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would be like if Sherlock Holmes meets an senior detective? And what would be like if that's Miss Marple? Murders in a quiet village with years' of secret to discover, maybe besides the suggestions given by the sweet yet sharp grandma, Sherlock could learn whether he picked the right pill from this master of humanity. And maybe, John knows better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock vs Miss Marple

Holmes v.s. Miss. Marple

1  
“Countryside,” my friend says in his most abstracted voice, breaking the silence between us, “miles of no-man’s land, separate houses and gardens, wild rivers and thick forests, perfect choice to commit, let along hide a crime.”  
After this announcement, he suddenly turns around and stares at me as if noticing me showing up there for the first time in our two-and-a-half-hour train trip to Matlock, just in time to capture my disapproval face.  
“The same mistake, John,” he goes on in a more matter-of-fact tone, “pure and peaceful countryside is one of those preconceived ideas rooted in common minds like yours. Any more rational deduction would leads to an opposite conclusion.”  
I hide my face behind newspaper, refusing to take part in his conversation. In a second I wish this detective would receive my posture and at least stop before changing his subject to my blog, unluckily he’s too self-centered to notice that, or to care.  
“You should see how your blogs are based on those stupid preconceptions and full of unnecessary questions and wrong emphasis, turning my cases into random novels.”  
I put down the newspapers, “Don’t read them then.” Although slightly silvering with hurt, I’m glad to find my voice stable, a little louder maybe, and surprisingly see a smile played on his face.  
“What?” I inquire, uncomfortable.  
“I finally make you talk, my good doctor.”  
For a moment I stare at him speechlessly. Then I faintly point out that a simple apology would work just as well.  
He hides his smile. “Hmmm… no. a. apologizing is not quite my area. B, it’s not honest. So what do you think?”  
I think I appreciate the train is arriving at our destination, saving my labor to punch back. 

2  
This trip begins at this morning, when Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world as he titles himself, criticized my blog until I picked up my coat.  
“Where are you going, John?”  
I opened the door and stepped out.  
“John?”  
On stairs I received a text.  
“When is our train for the case? SH.”  
Before a second thought I ran back, “What?”  
“The Matlock serial murder case, I asked you to book 2 train tickets of this morning last night…”  
“When I was dating Sarah?”  
He stared at me in astonishment. “So are we going?”

40 minutes later we caught on a train to Matlock just in time, while a strange feeling lingered in my mind. Once I caught my breath, it suddenly turned into an idea. “Sherlock, there is no such a case.”  
“Sure there is.” The answer is quick.  
“You knew I was out. You sent me messages, hundreds, not a word of case or train.”  
“Such a privilege to see you deducting, and you forgot to buy milk, too.”  
“I can’t believe you made the hell mess up.” My anger outgrew surprise fast. I found it was hard to believe, yet when all the impossible were ruled out, what left, no matter how absurd it looked…  
“…must be the truth.” Sherlock read my thought aloud. “But the missed link should be considered.”  
He showed me today’s paper. Dead Body Found in Peakhill…  
“It’s today’s paper; don’t tell me you saw this happening because I’m not going to believe…”  
“Excellent,” Sherlock seemed to be amused; “I did see this coming, serial murder.”  
He took back the paper, “so far I need more details… Call Lestrade and tell him we are going to visit Matlock police office.”  
I didn’t move. Whatever the hell was, I didn’t want to be part of it. A big mock at him once his lies got debunked seemed promising. And if we caught the earliest train back, my weekend plan with Sarah wouldn’t be totally ruined.

3  
And here we are, meeting a disturbed chief inspector of Matlock Police Station, Anthony Hughes.   
He stares at us in turns for quite a while. Then he clears his throat, “We don’t take every death as murder since generally they are not…”  
I almost begin to laugh when the Inspector goes on, “But you are not the first one…”   
“What?” We both blurt out. Sherlock’s eyes dangerously narrow; I know he gets offended by the idea that someone is before him.  
“Yes…” The inspector continues, “Anyway, Lestrade is an old friend of mine, he suggested me to assist you…”  
“I need no assistance.”  
“…before I punch you in the face. What do you need?”

Inspector Hughes is really helpful, he leads us to archive room and give us 2 mouth masks for “digging into aged dusts.” After a while he even sends some snack in.  
Sherlock begins the digging right away, yet I totally don’t know where to start.  
“Hey.” I ask him. “Don’t you want to explain?”  
“Explain? What? You thought I was lying. I wasn’t. You thought there was no murder. There were. Someone is ahead of me, we’ll be quick. Are that all clear?”  
“But the murder, how could you tell?”  
“No time.” He goes into digging again, obviously wants to be left alone.

So I leave him alone, furious about this sudden trip (sure he planned it in 5 seconds) and the feeling of excluded. Anyway, he doesn’t need me, so why not take a walk in countryside.  
The town of Matlock is not big, in 10 minutes I find myself standing in front of a lovely garden at the edge of the town while a middle-aged woman, is smiling at me.  
“Fancy some flowers?” Before I say anything, she asks me, “We have home-grown flowers, best ones.”   
She motions me to look at the board fixed of garden gate reading Rose Garden.   
Sarah loves rose, this idea somehow cheers me up, so I ask her if I can book a flower delivery to London.  
“Sure, with extra postage. Who do you want to send to?”  
“My girlfriend.”  
“Lilies and forget-me-not, our best seller.” She begins to write.  
“No, no, wait…” I’m confused, “Don’t you recommend rose? I mean…”  
“I know, the garden’s name, but you see,” She waves her hand proudly, "we don’t grow roses here, the soil doesn’t fit.”  
“uh…” I don’t know what to say.  
She drops down the pen, “So you are not all the way here to buy our flowers?”  
“Sorry, really, I’m not. Well, sure your garden is great. I guess a lot people do come all the way to, you know?”   
“Buy flowers, learn gardening, have a cup of tea. Yes, why not? Fancy a cup of tea?”  
It’s not a bad idea, especially when I suddenly find myself thirsty. In 5 minutes we are sitting in the lovely garden with hot tea in hand, chatting.  
“I know what you come for.” She says.  
“Really?” I’m surprised.  
“Yes, you are one of those newsmen, digging gossip of dead people.”  
“Really, am I?” After a thought, I add, “that obvious?”  
“Yes.”   
“So you’re not going to say anything?”  
“Depends on what you buy for your girlfriend?” She winks to me.  
“Whatever you suggest, I suppose."  
I get to know a lot of Mr. Feller and his affair until my text message sound breaks in her speech. Now I know the man had a secret affair with someone older than him even before his marriage, the wife found this out by checking his diary. He got a call (business call as he said) on the day of rain alarm, left his office early than usual and found dead today, half buried in landslide mud. The wife is totally heart broken.  
I look at my text, “See you at library. SH.”  
“Well…” I look up, meeting her inquiry sight. “Yes, the banquet you suggest.”  
“A note reads With Love.”  
“Yes.”  
“Address is?”  
“221B, Baker Street.” I already hurry out. “Thank you for your tea.”   
I think I have seen a grand library somewhere, but soon I’m lost and almost knock into an old lady turning around a corner.  
“Sorry, madam. ” I come to a halt just in time.  
She gets startled a bit, but soon calms down and smiles, “The library is just around the corner.”  
“What?”   
“Aren’t you looking for the library? I saw your friend waiting there, Mr. Watson.”  
Fear quickly squeezes my heart. I see my arms stretching out and seizing this fragile woman while my entire mind lingers on terrible possibilities of Sherlock, “What did you do to him?”  
“No.” She gently protests, smile still on face. “You take me wrong, young man. I just want to ask you a favor.”  
She looks really grandmotherly; I loosen my hands a little.  
“Tell your friend the gossip you get.”  
“What gossip?”  
“All.” She smiles. “Good day, doctor. See you soon.”

I run to the direction she pointed. Sherlock is impatiently waiting.  
“What took you so long?”  
“A woman, she knows my name.” I interrupt myself. “No, she knows yours.”  
Sherlock looks at me with a lifted brow, “Not one of your…”  
“No, you don’t understand. She knows everything, my name, where I’m going and who I’m with…She searched and prepared for us. She could be the murderer, or even worse, Jim Moriarty’s…”  
“No, John.” My friend pauses, his voice assuring and his eyes with weird flash. “An old woman knowing everything? How queer, that’s a woman detective. ”  
“You sure?”   
“Yes, no murderer would expose oneself like that. She was showing off to us.” He strode onto the stairs. “Come on, John. I can’t believe we’ve wasted so much time.”  
For a second I just stand there, gasping. Then I feel my blood flows again. Damn, where is the relaxed feeling from?  
“You know I could just leave.” I shout to his back figure. I never have this idea before, but once voiced, it seems so natural and normal. Why didn’t I just go back to London?   
“No, you won’t.”  
“Why?”  
He stops and turns around, “You packed your gun.”  
Damn he’s always right.  
He waits for me and we enter the library together.

4  
The librarian is a pleasing young man. He explains to Sherlock there are no records of book and borrowers 30 years ago. “Actually, books were not allowed taken out of library at that time, so…” Under Sherlock’s gazing pressure, he looks at me with a helpless smile. “Sorry.”  
“The book club…” Sherlock seems going to explode. “Where does the symposium take place? I need to see it.”  
“Sure, stack hall, up the stairs.” Sherlock rushes to the stairs, leaving me to cope with librarian’s curious look.  
I shrug and say, “Sorry, he is always like that.”  
“I know. It’s fine. Sorry.”  
“Sorry for what?”  
“The book club. You must come for the book club, right? But this Saturday we don’t have symposium. In mourning of book club founders, you know, although I don’t think that’s the way they would like.”  
He motions me to the information bar where a black-and-white photograph of an elderly couple is displayed. I walk closer to read the introduction.  
“Andrew Cliff & Eleanor Cliff. Founders and guiders of 32 years to book club.”  
“What happened to them?”   
“Well, both dead.” Getting my inquiry glance, he adds, “Mr. Cliff took sleeping pills, and Mrs. Cliff drowned in river.”  
“Suicides?” So that’s why Sherlock is here.  
“No, they are not that kind of people.” He replies aloud as if getting offended. “I mean, well, yes because that’s what policeman said. But no, I don’t think so.”  
“So what do you think?” I can’t help to inquiry.  
He looks disturbed, “I don’t know. You see, he was my high school teacher, and he was a good man, people say he had affairs. I know what it looked like, but he was the last one on earth who could get involved in things of that kind. I don’t know what to believe.”  
“I understand. Sorry for them. Too many deaths, theirs, Robin Feller…”  
“You know Robin Feller?” He interrupts me.  
“No, not really, just heard of…”   
“Then you must know those rumors.”  
“Yes, a little…”  
“Robin Feller murdered Mr. and Mrs. Cliff.” He pulls down his body, slowly says, eyes fixed on my face.  
I can’t believe what I hear. Should I get Sherlock down to hear this, or tape it?  
“Really?”  
He nods heavily. “People saw them together, Mr. Cliff was crying. He must be threatened by Robin Feller, and that’s why he killed himself. Mrs. Cliff lost her minds for his death, that’s why she slipped into the river. That’s murder. Robin Feller must plan to run away, you know, no one would come to search for him in rain alarm.”  
I swallow all these words slowly. “So the sleeping pills. I thought it was an accident.”  
“No,” The young man says impatiently. “How can you not understand? Mr. Cliff never took pills. He was a good sleeper, no burden in mind. The pills were Mrs. Cliff’s. Family Insomnia or something. ”  
“Well, yes.” I decide to change a topic. “So the book club, right? Symposium in the stack hall, what’s that like?”  
“Discussion, reading, sharing ideas. You don’t know it before?” He looks at me doubtfully.  
“I…” My mouth is dry, “Won’t that be a lot of noise, you know, disturbing other readers.”  
“That’s a tradition. And, library is closed Saturday evening, only open for symposium.” His voice is cold now. After these words, he sits back to his seat and continues the reading interrupted by Sherlock and me.   
“Would you mind if I take a look at the stack hall?”  
He doesn’t reply.

I go up the stairs, remembering the old woman’s suggestion. Should I tell Sherlock what I heard, an explanation that all fixes? I doubt if it’s necessary, or if he has the patience.  
When I enter the stack hall, Sherlock is busy examining furniture, barely raising his head. I walk to the middle of stack hall, there lies sofas and tables, apparently is a discussion place, warm, quiet, surrounded by books. I notice there is no light on ceilings. The symposium takes place at evening, the only light source would be separate lamps fixed at tables or floor--a dark environment for intimate discussion and musing. I find myself imagining the scene of Mr. and Mrs. Cliff reading here, or me with Sarah?  
Sherlock passes quickly in front of me, I follow him out.

5  
“What do you get in the police station?” When we get out of the library, I ask Sherlock.   
He turns around and looks directly into my eyes.   
“Sorry to leave like that. I mean, you were all over the place and I don’t even know where to start.”  
“So you know where to start know?”  
“Well.” I can’t miss the chance to tell him all the gossip. If she is really a detective, she must have good reasons to suggest me so.  
Sherlock lowers his voice, “Come on. Surprise me.”  
“3 deaths look like suicides and accidence.”  
“Good, good.”  
That’s not an encouraging tone, but I go on. “Robin Feller had love affairs with someone older than him. He got a call and left his office, then found burying in mud. It’s said that he was planning to run away, because Mr. Cliff committed suicides under his threats, people saw them together, Mr. Cliff was crying. Mrs. Cliff couldn’t bear this lose and slipped into the river accidentally. Their deaths are all Feller’s fault. ”  
“Interesting.”  
The old woman said “all”. I continue, “They founded the book club.”  
“When?”  
“32 years ago.”  
“And the time and place of symposium is?”  
“Saturday evening, stack hall.”  
“Why?”  
I hesitated. “That’s a tradition.”  
“They founded the tradition. Why? Why not some other classroom? Meeting room? Their homes? Why a dim room, filled with stacks and close to public?”  
I don’t know what to say. “The atmosphere?”  
My friends looks at me sympathetically, “Has it ever occurred in your mind that Mr. Cliff might be the elderly lover of Robin Feller?”  
I’m astonished. “Was he?”  
“Robin Feller died at the age of 45. Does it remind you of something of Mr. Cliff?”  
“High school teacher.” I murmured desperately.  
For a second I see Sherlock nod at me with a smile. This illusion disappears quickly and he begins to say.  
“Thanks John. Though wildly wrong, some of your findings do support what I already know. What it doesn’t include are 2 deaths and 1 disappearance case. That’s what I find in police documentary and the reason to visit library.   
I feel stupid. My face must let out of my thought, because Sherlock steps closer to me and asks me quietly, “Fancy some food?”  
“Thanks. Never mind. You go on your work, I’ll…” I stop, his words reminds me of something. “A Rose Garden without rose.”  
The curiosity on Sherlock’s face makes him look even younger, “What’s that?”  
“No…nothing. Just some random idea. The old woman, you said she was a detective, told me to tell you all the gossip I got.” I feel even stupider.  
“She did, didn’t she?” Sherlock retreats his gazes, says carelessly.

6

With a good mood coming from nowhere, Sherlock explains the part I missed in police station.  
Christian Carter, 87, died in sleep 3 weeks ago.  
Judy Pierce, 24, died in a trip to London 25 years ago.  
Lily Carter, 22, got on a train to London and never arrived 27 years ago, not found alive or dead.  
“Were they a family?” That was the first question I can think of.  
“Yes.”  
“Was she killed and deserted on the train?”  
Sherlock shakes his head, “No. No one could take a body off train, yet no body was found along the railway. The girl didn’t arrive at London because she got off before that by herself.”  
“And got killed?”  
“I’m afraid so.” I imagine a girl; she bought a ticket to London to cheat on others, not knowing the death awaiting. And the grandma lived lonely ever since.  
“Maybe she is still alive; just don’t come back for some reason or other.”  
“Yes, maybe.” My friend says gently. I dare not to look at his eyes.  
“Why did they go to London?”  
“Lily Carter went to visit her best friend named Charlie Fleen.”  
“A boy? A secret elopement?”  
“No, Charlie Fleen was a girl. Her parents were killed in car accident days ago, so she invited her best friend to London for companionship. Actually she reported her friends’ disappearance to police. She thought her friend missed the first train, so patiently waited for the second train, and got panic after the second train arrived. She reported this to the police instantly.”  
“Did Lily get on the first train?”  
“Yes. Her friends saw her off at train station and saw her get on the train.”  
“Must be a hard for her, parents and best friend.”  
“Yes, she fell ill instantly.”  
“Sentiment, you don’t understand it, do you?”  
“No.”  
Another heartbroken girl, I sigh. “And Judy Pierce?”  
“A shopping tour. She and 3 other friends got on train to London together, went different stores and she didn’t show up at the agreed time to catch the back train. The 3 girls came back and found her missing. They reported to the police right away, the body was found in London, in a dump near underground bars. No one remembered her face.”  
“Did she?”  
“No, no hints that she planned to go to place like that.”   
“What’s the relationship between the 3, no, 6 cases?”  
“Christian Carter’s death is the first one in line of Mr. and Mrs. Cliff’s and Robin Feller’s. Judy Pierce was a classmate of Lily Carter in high school.” Sherlock stressed on “High School”.  
“Were they all book club members?”  
“I don’t know. I want to find clues in the library. There is none, except for a name engraved on an armchair reads Lily.”  
“That was her.”  
“Probably, it’s a small village anyway. But that’s not important. The dead people, they knew each other and they knew something, which leaded to their deaths.”  
“Could it be…?” I’m shocked by my own idea. “The…” I find it hard to continue.  
“Man love between the teacher and his student?” Sherlock glances at me. “That’s possible, but don’t build deduction on guess, that is what gossip does. The other detective, she is making the same mistake.”  
“So you are not competing with her now?”  
“No.” Sherlock turns his head away, “It’s a lucky guess of her.”  
“You don’t believe in luck, do you?”  
He doesn’t reply.

I have another question. “You knew all of this before we left London?”  
“Yes, vaguely, some cases happened when I was a child, that’s why we are here. Yet you doubted me.”  
“Hell. I still doubt you now. There was no travel plan before I left our dining room.”  
“You don’t think I’d just sit there, doing nothing, do you?”  
“Sure you planned to travel, that’s your favorite, murders, puzzles. But…”  
“No, I mean you left the dining room.”  
Suddenly I forget what I’m going to say, and I decide to forget it anyway.

“Well, for this work, collecting clues here and there all by yourself…” I clear my throat. “uh…You know you could have me to help.”  
He says nothing.  
“And you could tell me this on the train.”  
“You don’t talk.”  
I don’t know what to say. So I just pat his shoulder. “I packed gun, remember? What’s our next step?”  
“Christian Carter’s home.”  
“Hers?” I hesitated. “She couldn’t be murdered.”  
“Her granddaughter disappeared 27 years ago; her death is followed by other 3. You got to be kidding.”  
“But what for? She knew nothing about what was going on in the high school, did she? Or her granddaughter’s disappearance, otherwise she would search for her.”  
“What? What did you say?”  
“I said, she would search for her. What wrong with that?”  
“No, nothing. Of course she searched for her. All police searched for her. She was an exception of all the dead, and an exception could reveal facts more specific than others.”  
I’m totally confused. But Sherlock simply says, “Let’s go.”

7  
Some villager showed us the way to Mrs. Carter’s house. To my surprise, I see Rose Garden again when we reach the end of a different street, just from another direction. And Mrs. Carter’s house is right beside it.  
“Do you think…?” I slowly pick the right word, trying to explain the weird feeling rising in my mind, “The Rose Garden belongs to Mrs. Carter.”  
“Why?”  
“Her house is beside the garden. She seems to love flowers, her granddaughter’s name is Lily, and the garden’s name is rose…” I don’t know how to continue.  
But Sherlock turns his head to me slowly, as if experiencing a dream. “Rose garden without rose? It’s not a flower’s name. It’s a girl’s name. Rose and Lily!”  
He comes to a sudden scram and begins to run, to the direction of police office.  
“How could I miss this!”  
I follow him into the police station. He directly runs into Inspector Hughes’ office, “How many granddaughters did Mrs. Carter have?”  
“A disappearing one, so zero?” The Inspector gets totally confused.  
“No. There must be. Grandchildren in law, illegitimate child, any relatives. Where are they? Where can I find documentary?”  
“In the room you went this morning. But I don’t think you can find any. There is none, actually. Otherwise we’ll know.”   
“You really deem so?”  
“Yes. Real people can’t just disappear into air; there must be records for birth, death, missing or name change.”  
For a sudden no one speaks. Then I asked, “A girl named Rose and changed her name?”  
“No.”  
“Are you sure? Was Christian Carter’s Rose Garden named after a girl?”  
“Who cares? Is that important? Anyway it’s not even her garden. The land is Fleen’s property.”  
A longer silence, then Sherlock says, “Rose was the nickname of Charlie Fleen.”  
“Not likely. She never mentioned that. How do you know her nickname anyway? It was ages ago.” The inspector shakes his head in disapproving.  
“She was here? When?”  
“3 weeks ago.”  
“The same day Christian Carter died?”  
“Yes, but when she left, Carter was still alive, neighborhood heard her crying for a long time.”  
“No one went to see her?”  
“No one dared. Mrs. Carter had mental disorder. You are not suspecting Mrs. Shawn, are you? She was not even here during the other 3 death.”  
“So she is Mrs. Shawn now. She really likes changing right, right?”  
The inspector looks at him in disbelief, “Because She got married. Is there any problem?”  
Sherlock walks in the room like a caged beast. Suddenly he strides out of the office, I follow.   
The other detective is waiting for us outside the police station.  
“I know.” Sherlock says. “Judy Pierce, Christian Carter, Cliffs and Feller, Charlie Fleen killed all of them.”  
“Yes, so you get some gossip, thanks to Mr. Watson.” She smiles at me.  
“No, my deduction is based on facts.” Sherlock says in his most dangerous voice.   
“Gossip reveals facts, too. If you hadn’t taken some useful gossip yet, I’m afraid your deduction is wrong. Fancy some hints?”  
“No.” I can’t believe what I hear, Sherlock can always prove himself right, but this time, the other detective seems so confident. Something must be wrong, there must be some clue missed out by us, by Sherlock, something she already knows and she know well that we miss.  
They both look at me.  
“You are right, Mr. Watson. Clearly Mr. Holmes’ judgment should be independent. But I have to remind you, Charlie Fleen, whatever her names were, is foxy and cold-blood. And the trace of her crime is either vague, or dusted off. You’ve read police documents and news reports, you went to see libraries and houses, if you continue waste time like this, we’d have no chance to force her admit guilty tomorrow, which I deem, would be the last time she returns.”  
“No.”  
The old woman is not a fragile, gentle granny any more. Her lips straightened, her eyes shot out fire, her voice strong and strict. “Charlie Fleen is guilty. We both know that. If you can’t find any proof from your investigation, I’ll get her accused using my way. ”  
“You can’t. Your deduction is based on gossips, no one would believe that. While once I find proof of my deduction, even she can’t escape the punishment. I’m the one who can do it, and I’ll prove it to you.”  
To my surprise, the other detective smiles. “You still don’t trust gossip, do you?”  
“People lie. They spread lies not even knowing what they do…”  
“That’s how they reveal truth. You’re clever, you can tell the difference.”  
She leaves. I look at Sherlock, rage and determination flicker on his face.  
“John… We need more facts.”  
I nod. “Yes, about Charlie Fleen and all the murder, should I go back to London to look up?”  
“No.” He steadily stares into my eyes. “She is right. We talk to people.”

8

I don’t know Sherlock can be this talkative. I mean he’s always, in an annoying way. But now he talks to everybody, and listens, smiles, grins, laughs, buy people drinks, like a nice person. This finding freaks me out even more than his normal, terrible manners. For all night I read his motion and assist him in conversations. People tell us gossips of Robin Feller (a member of book clue from its start, married Camilla one year after Lily’s disappearance), Cliffs (a real happy couple, Mrs. Cliff proposed to Mr. Cliff on Fellers’ wedding day), Judy Pierce(a good friend of Lily and Rose) and Lily( shy girl, love reading, keep a diary, parents all died, raised by grandmother).  
Sherlock is interested to Christian Chris’ mental disorder, “What was that like?”  
“Well, just general mental disorder, I guess. She cried all day, barely talked, I sent grocery to her once a week, left them on her door steps.” The grocery’s shop boy says. “Mom didn’t allow me to talk to her since I was a child.”  
“What did you send? Towel, soap?”  
“Food basically. Medicine, she had heart disease.” He lowers his voice, “You know the police said she died for heart disease? The day before she died, I send her a new bottle of medicine, seemed like she ate them all. Crazy woman.”  
“Really?”  
“Yes, they found an empty bottle under her bed and checked the production date.”  
“How did she pay for them?”  
“She didn’t pay, Mrs. Miller paid for that. She ran Rose Garden for Fleens.”  
“Yes, I do.” Mrs. Miller joins our conversation.  
“You are really a busybody, uh?” She smiles at me.  
“Yes, I am. Why did you pay for her?” I ask.  
“That’s in the contact, I run Rose Garden, I pay for her bills. Fleens are kind, right?”  
“You mean Charlie Fleen is kind?”  
“Yes, I guess. I mean Mrs. Carter ran Rose Garden when she was fine. Then Lily died and she lost her mind, Charlie Fleen added this clause to the contact. Her best friend’s grandmother. I wonder why she didn’t come to visit her much, actually.”  
“Because she was a crazy woman, of course.” Says the barkeeper and his wife nods, “Remember the day Charlie visited her, her roar could be heard from here. Poor Charlie, she was totally frightened, ran from that place right away.”  
“Did she leave instantly?”  
“No, she came to the library.” Says the young librarian. “She went directly to the stack hall. When I carried returned books upstairs, I saw her sitting on the armchair carved with Lily. Can you imagine how pale and shivering she was? Now I know why.”  
“Did she take away any book or something?”  
“No. She just walked through the stacks a lot.”  
A sudden silence.  
“They were good friends, right?” Sherlock begins another topic.  
“Friends?” the barkeeper’s wife shakes her head, “They are like sisters. Charlie came here every summer before that terrible accident, they did everything together. When her parents died, the first thing she did was ask Lily to accompany. Poor girl. She blamed Lily’s death to herself, that was a heavy strike, especially after her own parents’ death. I heard she got serious ill, even delayed to attend her college. When Mrs. Carter went London to see her, she was too ill to get up. ”  
“Really? She went to see Charlie?”  
“Yes, the poor woman was half crazy at that time, and extremely weak. She went London without telling anyone, and passed out on the train back. Doctors said that heart attack, and she got worse and worse ever since.”  
“Poor woman.” I murmur, sincerely feeling sorry for her.   
“Did she have any other relatives?” Sherlock asks.  
“No. Her only daughter, Ella, died while giving birth to Lily. Her condition was not well, and they were too poor to send for a doctor. Lily’s father deserted them before that. But Christian was always a strong woman. She raised Lily all by herself, and she ran Rose Garden well. I remember those days she always said, Lily and Rose were her babies.”  
I look at Sherlock; he shows no sign of hearing anything particular.  
“You said they were like sisters, Charlie and Lily, how?” He asks.  
“Just a feeling. You see, Charlie was a fair modern lady, and Lily was a plain country girl. They were totally different, yet felt like sisters.”

9  
“Do you think she found something in those stacks?” I ask Sherlock when we finally come back to our inn.   
“No.”  
“There must be something motivate her to kill.”  
“Yes.”  
“Is it for Lily? She found the truth of her friend’s death, and took her own revenge.”  
“You’re tired. You need some sleep.” Sherlock says flatly.  
“Text me whenever you need.”  
“I’ll.” He looks at me, “Sleep tight.”

Once I step into my room, the exhaustion of the rushing day flows over my body. I fall instant sleep as soon as I throw myself on bed, and never wake up till the next morning.   
Sherlock is sitting in the lobby, pale and quiet.  
“Did you sleep last night at all?” I ask, sitting beside him.  
He shakes his head slightly.  
“At least eat something. I can make you some tea.”  
He shakes his head again. But when I make him tea, he drinks some.  
“Any new findings?”  
He slightly turns his head to me, “She needs my help.”  
I look at him, “You mean the other detective? No, you heard what she said. She had her way to trace everything well. Don’t worry about her.”  
“She needs my help; otherwise she wouldn’t help us.”  
I decide not to point out that he is admitting getting helped.  
“So what are you going to do? Help her?”  
A long pause, then a slight nod.  
“Good.” I stretch my arm to pat oh his back, and feel some pressure from my hand. The next second, Sherlock leans over and his breath shallows. The detective fell asleep suddenly, somehow I feel relaxed for that, rather than awkward. For 15 minutes I keep myself still, his head on my shoulder, until Inspector Hughes steps into the lobby.  
“That’s what he asked.” He says quietly to me. “Good day.” And then he left.  
Another 15 minutes passed. I decide to take this young fellow to bed. But as soon as I grasp his shoulders, he wakes up.   
“What’s the time?”  
“8:30. you need some sleep.”  
“No, your tea makes me sleepy. I can’t believe I fell asleep just now.” He complains, and sees the envelop Inspector brought.  
“Good.” He looks at me, “Ready to go, John?”  
“Yes. Where?”  
“The library. She is waiting for us there.”  
I get confused. I must miss a lot of things last night.  
“You are not going to miss this.” As always, Sherlock replies to what I’m thinking.  
“What?”  
“Book club symposium, remember?” A wicked smile crosses his lips, “You love its atmosphere.”

10  
The other detective is waiting for us at the library gate.  
I wonder if they chatted and planned everything last night, but her first sentence proves me wrong. “Morning, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson. Had some refreshing gossip last night, I suppose?”  
To my surprise, Sherlock smiles, “Quite enlightening.” Then I watch in horror that he bends and kisses her hand.  
“May I have your name, Madam?”  
“Jane Marple.” The other detective get surprised a bit, but soon begins to smile. “You are such a sweet young man. And I see you progress a lot.”  
“Thanks, Miss Marple.” Sherlock says gently. Then he hands her onto the steps.

Miss Marple (it’s weird to call such an old woman Miss, but Sherlock must have his reasons.) picks a book on birds and Sherlock picks a book on bees. I can’t believe they just sit down around the table and begin to read.  
“Sherlock, what are you doing?”  
“Reading.” He plainly says.  
“What about the symposium?”  
“That… That will start soon.”  
Miss Marple winks at me, “I’d say you won’t be opposed to a good book, will you? That’s what needed for a successful symposium.”  
Do all detectives speak in riddles? I decide to find this out somehow later. Now I just pick a geography book and sit down, carefully avoid the armchair with Lily’s name on it.  
Library is closed on Sunday morning, so no other villagers come in. When I begin to feel nervous for what’s going on, Inspector Hughes walks in with Lestrade. They both nod at me and Miss Marple, while Sherlock barely raises his eyes from books.  
Soon enough, I hear steps on the stairs. Then a middle-aged woman walks in, followed by two sergeant.   
“What do you want?” She starts straight.  
We all stare at her. The two sergeants block the door, while she not even try to flee.  
“What do you want?” She says again.  
“Thank you for joining our little symposium, Mrs. Shawn.” Miss Marple says finally.  
“I’m not joining your anything.” She gazes at us in turns, “Sergeants asked me to come, so I’m here, despite all my business.”  
“You are selling your property here. Don’t you want to return here anymore?” Miss Marple asks, closely observing her every move.  
“Why? It’s always my sad place; my best friend disappeared from here. Anyway, it’s just a business decision.”  
“You use the word Disappear, don’t you think she’s dead?” Miss Marple continues.  
“Well, yes. Too hard for me to admit it.” She chocks a little, but her face shows no change.  
“What did you take away?” Sherlock turns his head at her. “Last time you came here.”  
I try to hide my surprise. Did the librarian lie to us last night?  
“I don’t know what you’re saying.” Her voice grows cold..  
“The diary, Lily’s diary. The librarian saw you sitting on her armchair. You took away the diary from its secret drawer.”  
To my surprise she begins to smile. That’s a determined smile. She takes a deep breath, and says, “So you found that, detectives. Yes.”  
“Show us. I know that’s in your handbag”  
She swallows, “Yes.” Then she slowly opens her handbag, picks out an old notebook, and walks forward to put it on the table.  
“What did you find in the diary?” Sherlock continues his inquiry. Two inspectors nervously move a little.  
“You ask me what I found.” She suddenly lowers her body, gazing into Sherlock’s eyes. “Don’t you know it already?” Then she straightens to her full height, as if giving a speech, “The secret she came across, the threat she bore, the reason to her disappearance. And I have full reason to believe, Judy Pierce died for exact the same reason, she was so close to my friend, too close that made her somebody’s threat, too.”  
“What did you do?”  
“What did I do?” She folds her arms, scanning on us all. “I know what you think, but you’re wrong. I didn’t kill them. I was to, but I didn’t. I called them, one by one, telling them what I know. I called Mr. Cliff, the nobleman who had sodomy with his student. He begged me and I simply hang up. The next day I knew about his suicide. And Mrs. Cliff, secret admirer of brilliant young Richard Cliff, threatened Lily not to reveal her findings. I asked her out. Before I said anything she got down to her knees. I told her I had no intension to besmirch her reputation. The next thing she did, you all know. And Robin Feller, I told him about Lily’s diary, he said he wanted to see me at once. He must want to kill me there, but I didn’t go. So, now you’re pleased, lady? Gentlemen?”  
“You have no witness for what you said. Push on a weak woman, bury a dead body in mud, who can prove you didn’t?” Inspector Hughes asks, his voice hesitated and uncomfortable.  
“Who can prove I did?” She begins to speak like some victory goddess, that almost repels me. “Nobody. And face the fact, they deserved it. They wouldn’t kill themselves if they were not guilty. They knew the revenge would come and that was how they took it. It’s my revenge for my dear friend, and I clarify this again, I did nothing guilty.”  
She begins to walk to the door. Sergeants there are uncertain whether to stop her. My heart sink. That’s the end of it. She escapes all the charges, nice and clean.  
“And Christian Carter?” Sherlock enquires evenly.  
“I’m sorry for her death. I know it must be hard for her, that why I avoided to see her all these years. I thought she would have forgiven me so I went to see her, I was wrong. That was a terrible mistake.” She suddenly turns around. “I’m sorry for that, I do. But that’s not my fault.” I see her choking back tears.  
“Of course she couldn’t forgive you, you killed her granddaughter.” Sherlock says quietly. Suddenly, every eye turns to him; everyone seems horrified, except for Miss. Marple.   
Charlie Shawn, original name Charlie Fleen, nickname Rose, her voice dries, “What?”  
Mrs. Marple stands up solemnly, “We are waiting for you here, not for those deaths, but for an even more cold-blood one you committed and we have proof.”  
Mrs. Shawn shakes her head in disbelief, “I don’t know what you’re talking.”  
“Sherlock, show her what you found in Mrs. Carter’s house.”  
“I can’t believe it. You broke into a private house?”  
“With search warrant, yes.” Sherlock motions Inspector Hughes, the latter nods heavily. “Here is a letter, Mrs. Shawn, sent to you from your sister, but kept by Mrs. Carter all these years.”  
She smiles confidently. “That’s impossible.”  
The inspectors go pale. I look at Miss Marple, surprisingly find a secret smile flicking in her eyes.  
“Have you ever wondered why Mrs. Carter went to see you after Lily’s appearance? I bet she brought the letter with her, and tried to confront you in person. She meant no harm but you avoided to see her all these years and lost the chance forever.”  
“What chance? I don’t understand. ”  
“A chance to destroy the letter, the proof that you committed crime against your sister. And Please allow me to point out, last time when I said sister, you didn’t deny it.”  
I hold my breath. So that’s the final truth, yet it’s too shocking to believe. Why a rich uptown girl killed her poor sister, her best friend? I focus all my sight to Charlie Fleen, in case of missing any of her reaction.  
For a second Mrs. Shawn’s pupil dilates. She stiffly takes over the letter Sherlock passes to her hand, and looks down subconsciously. Then her eyes fix on it, her breath stops, when she looks up again, she is not the same Mrs. Shawn anymore. Her lips are pale and trembling, tears swells in her eyes.  
The sergeants walk to her. Sensing their grasp, she suddenly reaches into her handbag.   
“No.” Sherlock shouts and takes her handbag away. “Somebody keeps this; I already suspect she takes deadly poison with her everywhere.”  
“Yes.” She smiles pale and faintly, “To take away the life I get from my sister. Yes. I’m lucky enough. I thought the punishment would come sooner, and I prepared everything.” Suddenly she bursts into tears, “I regret it, I really do…Please.” Then she is taken away.

11  
I walk forward to pick up the letter Mrs. Shawn dropped. To my surprise, there was only a blank sheet inside, and the envelop shows it was from Rose to Lily.  
“What’s this? What happened?” I raise it up to show Inspectors, they look confused, too.  
“Lily.” Miss Marple smiles, “She is Lily.”  
“No.” My blood runs cold. “How come …?”  
“Ella, daughter of Christian Carter, gave birth to twins. One is Lily, the other is Rose. Finding impossible to raise them both, Mrs. Carter gave away Rose to Mr. and Mrs. Fleen. As a Thank-you, they let Mrs. Carter run their property, and allowed her to name it after Rose. I believe Mrs. Carter made them promise to let her see Rose when she grew up.”  
I find my mouth open.  
“That was a secret deal and happened soon after their birth, so no official record of name change or adoption. I believe they did this out of good intention, however, Lily and Rose found it out, maybe because the garden’s name or Granny Chris’ special sentiment for Rose, or the simple fact that they looked alike…”  
“No. The barkeeper’s wife said…” I hear myself protesting.  
“Different environment did cast strong influence to their appearance to fool others, yet not enough for themselves. They kept this secret like real sisters did. Lily must try to imitate her sister a lot, out of envy or mere admiration. But those attempts finally gave her confidence when she found fate gave her a chance…”  
“Rose’s parents died.” I bury my face in hands.  
“And she was going to college.” Sherlock continues. “Lily wrote a letter, asking Rose to pick her up somewhere between Matlock and London and keep it a secret. She must have told Rose about the threat her got and why, to make sure Rose would agree with this plan. Rose did. She killed Rose there, hide her body, put on her clothes, got on another train to London, and reported to police.”  
“The serious illness.” Lestrade follows quickly, “Kept her in bed for several months.”  
“And refused to see Christian Carter, sure she would recognize her.” Inspector Hughes pats his head, “I can’t believe we miss this.”  
“Sure she could recognize her, she recognized her after so many years. That was a terrible mistake; remember what she said? I doubt Mrs. Carter felt something right after Lily’s disappearance, which was the real reason of her secret trip to London, yet got turned away, that in returns proved her suspicion. This finding must chew her heart, yet she didn’t want to lose her last granddaughter, so she kept it to her tomb. ” Miss Marple says pitifully.  
“Why did Lily visit her after so many years, anyway?” Inspector Hughes asks.  
“I don’t know.” Miss Marple admits, “Maybe she was confident of her role, maybe she just wanted to see her granny. Anyway, after killing Judy Pierce, the poor girl recognized her in London streets 2 years after she begun to play Rose, this exposure made her feel unsafe again. She didn’t want to risk any more. She planned the deaths of people who might recognize her, the numbered people who knew Lily better that more likely to reveal her, under the name of revenge for an innocent friend.”  
“The diary, the librarian said she didn’t take anything away.”  
The two detectives begin to smile. “No, she didn’t. She had the diary all the years, a memento she couldn’t make up her mind to desert. This was a double insurance, once her relationship with those deaths got revealed; she could use this as a motivation, and escape moral and civil charges at last. Brilliant resort I’d say.”  
“So you knew she was Lily when she admitted to take away a diary while she actually didn’t?” I slowly summon my thoughts.  
“No, I knew it right from the start. But she admitted it by herself at that time.” Miss Marple smiles. “She was too confident, but full of flaw. Remember how sure she was about the letter?”  
“She thought you found a letter from Lily.” I swallow.  
“Exactly, she knew there was no such a letter because she is Lily.”  
I look at the envelop again, try to recall the frightened face of her when she saw a letter from really Rose, a letter arrived after she killed Rose, a letter full of evidence that she inveigled Rose to a secret destination, a fake letter yet enough to horrify an guilty mind.   
“I think it’s your finding on her real identity that scared her hell out.” I straight myself up in seat, clear my throat, trying not to run away from two detectives’ gaze.  
Finally Sherlock smiles, “Good deduction, John.”

12  
Now we are at the train station, waiting for the train back. My mind still lingers on this terrible yet splendid (I don’t know any word to describe it better) serial murder over years, when my ears capture a word from Sherlock’s conversation with Miss Marple.  
“You said you knew it right from start?”  
“Yes, but I did need your search warrant. Otherwise she wouldn’t take it. I couldn’t just tell her I jumped into a window, right? Although I bet you always did that.” She smiles trickily.  
“How could you know from the start?”  
“I understand it. The only advantage of getting old.”  
“Murder?” I can’t help to interrupt.  
“No, humanity.” She smiles. “The girl’s reaction to her best friend’s disappearance was full of flaws, yet what a rich girl killed her poor sister for?”  
“Yes.” I understand. “So that was bluff actually, mentioning all the death?”  
“Triple bluff for double insurance, that was a cold-blood and strong woman.” She smiles, and turns to Sherlock. “Anyway, you did progress a lot. Fruitful study on gossip, I suppose?”  
“Yes,” After a pause, Sherlock adds, “Yes, indeed. Thank you.”   
“Thank you, too. You are such sweet young men, you and your…” Her eyebrow lifted, “I’d say…?”  
I can’t help to swallow.   
“Colleague.” Says Sherlock. “Yes, that will do.” I nod.  
She smiles craftily, “Yes, of course.”  
For a moment she looks going to give us a goodbye hug, but stops and smiles at Sherlock again. “I reckon you have a question?”  
“I’ve known a cabbie.” Sherlock’s voice is low, “claiming himself capable to see through people.”  
“Yes, useful in business, I suppose.” She examines him face closely “Was he good?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“You want to find out?”  
“Yes.”  
My heart begins to race. Sherlock leaves while Miss Marple prepares for the experiment.  
I find my voice dry, “Please.”  
Miss Marple smiles at me, “I saw his finger run into her bag. Nimble.”  
“You can’t take it seriously.” I don’t know what to say. Sherlock is so stupid, he is just so stupid.  
“Doctor,” She looks into my eyes, “Tell me, was that also you last time saving his life?”  
“Uh…” Her eyes penetrate into mine. Somehow her gaze calms me down.  
The next second, Sherlock strides back.  
“So, Mr. Watson?” Miss Marple titles her head, two paper bags on her palm.   
They both look at me.  
I walk away.

After seconds I come back. Sherlock is smiling and Miss Marple holding her paper bag, is smiling, too.   
“John, quick, we are getting on the train.” He shouts at me, happily.  
“So, good bye, glad to see you two.” Miss Marple shakes our hands. “I will give this to Inspector Hughes.”  
“Where is Lestrade? Is he not leaving with us?” I ask.  
“He must look after the murderer, I guess.” Miss Marple answers.  
“And paper work.” Sherlock adds.  
“Yes, paper work.” Miss Marple smiles again.

I wave to her until her figure totally disappears in my sight. Then I sit back.  
“Such a nice lady. She is so kind to see us off.”  
“She came to assist my experiment.” Sherlock says flabbily.  
“What? How did she know?” I make a sudden turn to him in shock.  
Sherlock shrugs. “She knew.”  
How detectives communicate with each other, I’ll never know. So I drop this topic, and think up another one.  
“Did she kill all these people?”  
“Yes, directly or indirectly.”  
“That’s a guess, you said you never guessed.”  
“No, that’s a fact without proof. That’s different.”  
“Well, how?”  
“Humanity, remember? People don’t easily commit suicides; she gave them deadly push, mentally or physically.”  
I absorb his words, and finally comments, “It’s a privilege to hear you talking about humanity. You don’t even take sentiment.”  
“Sentiment, sentiment exposed her, John. Can’t you see it?”  
“No, I see a cold-blood murder.”  
“Not to her family. Sentiment to herself, she just couldn’t throw her diary away, remember? She took it as an advantage, as a result got her into prison.”  
I clear my throat, “That didn’t. You got her into prison.”  
“Well, that was true. But I suppose she would be more cautious without such a convenient prop.”  
“You’d track her down anyway, isn’t it? You, and Miss Marple.”  
Silence, then a contented smile comes across his lips. “Me, yes.”  
For a second I want to tell him her conversation with me before his stupid experiment, to warn him what a dangerous and good (Thank God) person Miss Marple really is, but give up. Somehow I know she wanted to keep it to ourselves, and I understand that’s out of her concerning for a proud young detective.  
So I drop the topic, and surprisingly find a smile on Sherlock’s face.  
“She tried to give us hint, can you believe it? Charlie Fleen, whatever her names were. She warned that I missed a name.”  
My blood runs cold. “Sherlock,” I look at him cautiously, “You are not upset for that, are you?”  
“No,” He answers impatiently, “I got it but it was not a fact. My deduction was based on facts, even facts from unconscious gossip. Even you came up with hints, remember?” He gives a curious look, “You said the girl might not die, and the grandmother would go searching for her if she knew anything about her disappearance.”  
My tone gets twisted. It’s so queer to look back at what I said now.  
“She was right about the last chance though. I don’t think we can break her down that easily under other circumstances.” Sherlock drily continues.  
“So are you going to adopt her way? Chatting and gossip whatever?”  
“Hell no.” He looks at me in astonishment, “That’s too time consuming and boring, and only useful in very specific circumstances, only countryside, basically. Seriously, what are you thinking?”  
Thinking I don’t need to stay with a “pleasant” Holmes any more, I can’t help a sigh with relief.  
“For some occasions I guess, who knows?” He adds to himself, annoyed.  
I swallow my sigh, feeling detective’s head heavier and heavier on my shoulder.

12  
We come across Mrs. Hudson at our doorway.  
“Hey,” Her eyes sparkles, “Who’s the sweet boy?”  
“Sherlock.” I say, remembering how Miss Marple praised him.  
Sherlock gives me a bitter glance.  
It’s too late when I get what she really meant.  
The most beautiful banquet I’ve ever seen is waiting for us beside the stairs. My next thought is about how Sarah not getting this apology, while Sherlock passes me quickly, picks up the banquet, strides swiftly upstairs, not forgetting showing off to me with a big smile.  
Then Mr. Hudson winks at me, “I thought that was for me.”  
“Sorry.” At once I realize what I said and want to replace it with a yes, but give up finally, “Next time, I promise.”

Then I go up the stairs. Sherlock is holding the knob of our dining room door, smiling and waiting.


End file.
